


Bruised

by Mimsys



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (not shown graphically; dealing with the aftermath), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt!Steve, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prostitution, Steve Whump, abuse tw, not between steve and bucky, prostitute!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2622464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimsys/pseuds/Mimsys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve has always taken on odd jobs to help get them through the winter, and he's willing to take this one to stop being a burden. But Bucky won't see Steve come home bruised and breaking without protest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruised

**Author's Note:**

> If I owned anything relating to Steve Rogers, he'd be canonically bisexual. So obviously, I do not.

It’s not the first time Steve has hid bruises from Bucky by any means so he’s gotten rather good at it, at picking outfits that fold over the marks to shield them from view and smeared charcoal over his cheeks to disguise the darkening skin there as a causality of his sketching. And it’s not, of course, the first time Bucky has caught him in the act, placing a damp cloth over the bruise to lessen the swelling and fretting over his blond friend. This is the first time, however, that Bucky has seen a _hickey_ marking Steve’s pale skin. He’s jealous even though he has no right to be, furious that anyone would touch Steve when it was so likely they didn’t deserve someone like him. He doesn’t mention it, though, doesn’t ask when Steve managed to find time to share with a bedpartner when it’s none of his business. But he watches, brow furrowing when Steve returns from work late, breathless and limping and bruised, the marks around his neck soon joined by a ring of bruises along his wrist. That’s when Bucky intervenes.

“If someone is hurting you, you know you can let me know.” Bucky tells Steve over stew that night; it’s a warm meal, even if it’s more water than anything else, and it’s all they can afford, so Bucky cherishes it. It keeps Steve from shivering quite so violently when he comes home, soothes his throat when it’s sore from coughing. “Even if you two are making time, that doesn’t mean they can hurt you, Stevie. Please.” 

“Making time?” There’s fear in Steve’s eyes and his voice is thin and reedy with it, but Bucky doesn’t understand _why_. “No one’s hurting me, Bucky; you know I bruise easily.” Bucky wants to protest, but Steve’s rejection comes quickly and forcefully and he wonders if maybe he’s overreacting, worrying when he needn’t.

“Alright, but the offer still stands.” Bucky turned his attention back to his soup, letting out a sigh of relief when Steve did the same; Steve sometimes skipped meals when he was upset but he couldn’t afford to do so, not now, not with winter and sickness approaching so quickly. He doesn’t speak, lets his frail friend eat his fill, and wishes he could do more to help, wishes Steve trusted him enough to tell him what was wrong. His silence didn’t continue for long.

Steve stumbled into the apartment a few nights later at close to two in the morning, clothes dirty and torn and stained with—Bucky’s mind balked at that and he shook his head, focusing on his friend. He was bruised, dark coloration curling around his delicate neck and down his thin chest, wrists chaffed red and bruised purple, whole body trembling from cold. “B-Bucky.” His name is broken on Steve’s lips and Bucky rushes to aid him, wrapping his arms around his friend.

“What happened? Did you get into a fight?” Steve’s lip is split and his face is obviously tracked with tears, which is almost as concerning as anything else. “Who did this to you?” He’s shaking in Bucky’s arms, not speaking, not even when Bucky lays him out carefully on the couch. But when Bucky slid his hands under the hem of Steve’s shirt, trying to lift it so he can see the extent of the bruising, the blond yanked himself away from the other’s calloused palms, a snarl on his lips. “Stevie!”

“ _No_ , don’t touch me.” He’s still afraid, that much is clear, but there’s more clarity in his eyes than has been there since Steve first stumbled into the apartment, “You have to _ask_ to touch me; I’ve been touched enough.” He sounds so vehement, even in his panic, and Bucky lifts his hands up in a consoling gesture, removing his apparently unwelcome touch.

“I know someone hurt you, Steve, but it’s me, it’s _Bucky_ , and you have to know I wouldn’t hurt you.” Steve is crying again and it makes Bucky’s heart ache to see it and not know how to calm him, to make him stop hurting. “What happened Steve, please.”

Steve still crawled away from the other, pale with fear but with cheeks reddened from crying, and pressed against the far end of the couch, choking on shaky breaths. “I- I took on another job to help pay for rent and heat this winter. I… I started selling myself on the streets.”

“Why, Steve, God.” Bucky reached out for the other with one hand and then yanked it back, biting back a curse when Steve flinched away from him. “I could support us. I know it’ll be tight, it always is, but we’d make it through. Why would you….?”

“I didn’t want to be a burden, know you skip meals so I can eat, didn’t want you to have to – to – please, Bucky, I had to help.” He’s stammered out, breath shallow and short, close enough to an asthma attack that Bucky pressed a soothing hand to his shoulder despite his earlier worry.

“You didn’t, Stevie.” And now he’s tugging up Steve’s shirt carefully, revealing more bruises than Bucky can count in all degrees of healing, purple and green overlapping on pale skin stretched taunt over jutting ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath and then dipped his head, pressing a light kiss to one near Steve’s collarbone.

“What are you doing?” Steve’s breath caught in his throat, “You don’t have to do that. I’m dirty now.” Bucky only growled in response and Steve let his head fall back, tense and trembling. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Bucky’s answer is short, sharp. “I don’t think you’re dirty, but I don’t want you doing that anymore. It’s dangerous, Steve, and I won’t lose you too. They’ve bruised you, scratched you up, and soon or later, they’re going to do worse. Break bones, maybe, or trigger an asthma attack and then _leave_ you alone in the alley to _die_.” He continued to trail his lips over the other’s torso, learning each bruise. “I need you safe, Steve. Please.”

Steve is melting beneath the light kisses, too used to rough touches and snarled instructions, but he nods jerkily once. “Just wanted to carry my own weight.”

“Not enough weight on you that I couldn’t do it.” Bucky replied gruffly. He knows there will come a time when Steve’s hands shake from the cold too much for him to paint, when Steve’s too sick to do much besides curl up in bed and shake under the blankets, but that’s something Bucky is willing to compensate for to keep his friend safe. Steve should never have felt the need to sell himself. “You’re more than that, Steve. These bruises will heal, but I could have lost you.” And then he hauled Steve to his feet, guiding him towards Steve’s bed, the one closest to the heater, and pulled him down. “For now, you’re going to sleep, to heal. And you’re going to promise you’ll never do that again.”

“Promise.” Steve agreed, sounding drowsy and exhausted as Bucky spooned against him, pulling blankets tight around them, “I won’t… I won’t leave you.” He felt a kiss against the back of his neck, stubble rough against his pale skin, “Wouldn’t.”


End file.
